I Have a Girlfriend in Canada
by ChapstickLez
Summary: One Shot: When you're at a bar and you tell people you have a girlfriend in Canada, it feels like a trope. And a little bit of a lie. And you hate everything except your job and you miss her, but she's not really your girlfriend, is she?


"Sorry, I have a girlfriend. In Canada."

"Oh. Right," and she leaves you alone.

It's not really a lie, you tell yourself. You have a friend with whom you have sex who lives in Canada. Even though you've only had sex twice since you moved, there have been countless hours spent on the phone, texting, or Skyping. There was phone sex more than once. It was interesting.

But you don't know if you can really call Gail your girlfriend anymore. That ship has sailed long and far away, and here you are at a lesbian bar in San Francisco, regretting the series of choices that landed you here.

Getting together with Gail in the first place had been an accident. You'd never planned to fall hard for someone right before you knew you were leaving the country. Keep it light, keep it simple. That's what Lisa kept telling you. She was right, too. You should have kept it light and simple and not stomped over Gail's heart like fucking Godzilla.

But you did. You totally did and you tried to apologize, but you remembered the first time a girl you liked screwed with you like that. And there was only one thing to do. Cut it off. Keep it light. Move on and dabble, because Holly Stewart was moving up in the world. Moving up and on and out and to San Fran-fucking-cisco.

It was a colossal mistake. From day one, you mishandled everything about Gail. You shouldn't have kissed her in the coat closet. God knows you should never have kissed her in the shower when she was vulnerable and open, but you didn't know what else to do. She was so shell shocked and hurt and, for crying out loud, she'd kissed _you_ first!

Except she wouldn't have if you hadn't in the beginning, so it's clearly still all on you.

You look at the tequila shot before you and wince. Gail likes tequila. She'd introduced you to tequila body shots one night, and the memory still makes you shiver. Gail's great at that, making you shiver and shudder. She unabashedly likes sex, which you like too, just not that openly and blatantly. Gail likes sex with you as well, which was a relief to learn at the time. Now it's just depressing.

Depending on how you drive, it's either 40 hours and 4200 kilometers, or 42 hours and 4500 kilometers to drive back to Toronto. It would be fastest to drive in the United States most of the way, even if that means driving through Iowa and Wyoming. As its winter, driving would be stupid, and it's not like you can just say fuck it and get in the car and leave.

Among other things, Gail won't let you.

She'd told you that you absolutely had to do this. After a short argument about how stupid Holly was for not telling her beforehand, and perhaps you would be wiser to let potential girlfriends know you're leaving _before_ you sleep with them, she told you live was too short to keep being pissed off and hurt. Pissed at you, at least. Lisa was fair game, she insisted. You, still smitten and smarting, agreed.

You run your finger around the rim of the glass, smiling and remembering that night. It might have been more productive to talk, but the minute you'd gotten to your place, there had only been one ending to the night. You didn't regret it at all. You needed her and she needed you and you both needed to feel something good for a change.

It was after that you talked about California and Sophie and how you'd both moved on in different ways.

She didn't ask you to stay. She told you to go, to do this and to be excellent.

And you listened. You knew she was right, but you told her you'd be coming back for work and for family. She gave you the smile, full of teeth and empty of bite, and suggested you get a nice hotel. At least until she moved out of the frat house.

All of this ends with you sitting in a stupid bar, dragged by your coworkers who are too much like Lisa and seem to think that the best way to get out there is to go out there and … You have a girlfriend in Canada. No thanks, you're not interested.

"That sounds like a line," says the woman on the other side of you, having watched the whole encounter.

"Hows that?" You sigh and think that after this drink, you're just going home. You can't call Gail, she's working the night shift and is probably wrapping up and going home soon.

The woman grins at you. "Lots of people lie about sex, saying they have a girlfriend in Canada."

You arch your eyebrows. You'd heard about that, from TV and movies, but this woman seemed to be saying that actually happened. "Oh," you manage to say. "I'm Canadian."

She makes an 'ah' of understanding. "That's less of a line." You both sip your drinks. "So if you have this Canadian girlfriend, why are you here at a bar?"

You laugh. "That's complicated," you admit. Complicated and stupid and reckless, and pretty much that describes your whole relationship with Gail. Except for the stupid part. You're pretty sure it wasn't stupid at all, just ill-timed.

The woman looks around. "I got dumped this morning by 'the one.'" Her announcement catches you off guard. "Seriously, we're eating breakfast and she says she's moving to New York."

"That … wow." That sounds vaguely familiar to you telling Gail you were leaving. "Did she ask you to come with?"

"No," laughs the woman.

You mull that over for a moment, wondering if that makes it better or worse that you asked. "I asked her to come with," you find yourself admitting.

She eyes you. "Not to the bar."

"Here. America. But she's got a … thing." A child. Maybe. Possibly. Probably not, really. Gail was such a damn long shot for that, but she was clearly trying.

"Oh, you're the run-away?"

"Job of my dreams," you reply, bitterly. And that's the stupid part. You do love the job. It's everything you've wanted to do most of your life. Ever since you decided to work as a pathologist, you had this _Quincy_ dream and it's becoming a reality and all you need is a houseboat and Gail and it'll be perfect.

What you've got is an apartment that's twice the price and a quarter the size of your townhouse in Toronto. That's before you did the math for the exchange rate. You sigh and look at the tequila again.

"This is the part where you dump your shit on a stranger."

"And we go make out in the back? No thanks," you laugh. It feels like you're being defensive, but you pull your phone out and show her the picture you took of Gail before you left. She's got that smile.

The woman leans over and makes an appreciative noise. "She looks like a heartbreaker."

That's what Nick said too. He'd always known Gail was going to break his heart. You'd never felt that way. "So I've been told," you admit.

"How's long distance working out?" She sounds hopeful, as if there's a chance for herself and her 'the one' somewhere out there.

You shrug. "Kind of. I went home for the holidays." She looks at you, confused. "Canadian Thanksgiving was last month."

Every single moment you'd not been busy with your family and other friends demanding your time, you spent with Gail, too. Somehow you manage not to turn beet red at that memory.

And your new friend seems to understand that, nodding. "I don't want to do that. I like the coming home to someone."

You wonder what that's like. The closest you came with Gail was when you'd started dating and she pretty much was over every chance she got. "Sounds nice," you grumble.

The woman beside you looks confused. "You weren't living together?"

"No, we were… It's really complicated." You said it before, but it's still true. "We broke up."

"Oh, so she's your ex-with-benefits?"

"No!" You say it a little louder than you mean to. "It's not like that." Except it totally is. Calling Gail a friend with benefits is a hell of a lot closer to what's really going on.

Your nameless companion reads between the lines. "You're still totally hung up on her. Sucks."

"She said I was the best thing that ever happened to her." You're morose and you know it.

"Wow," admits the other woman. "Wait, so you're trying this long distance crap without putting a name on it?" When you nod, she winces. "That has to suck. I think I'll stick with being dumped. At least I know it's over."

"Not exactly a fairy tale," you mutter.

"Cheers." You clink glasses and this time drink the tequila.

It's strong and your eyes water. How the hell does Gail drink that stuff? She told you she does stupid things when drunk on tequila, and you remember body shots and wonder how much it would take to get her drunk on the stuff. One shot does not make you drunk, but you do unlock your phone and thumb a message.

"Drunk texting bad," warns your neighbor.

You hit send regardless. You just need her to know you miss her. "She's at work anyway."

The other woman frowns. "In Toronto? It's like … three AM."

"Four," you correct. "She's working the late shift this week." But at this hour, she may be asleep anyway. When no reply comes, you're pretty sure she's busy or she's asleep. "Three hours off. Five hours away by plane. About 40 hours if you drive. 2300 miles. 4200 kilometers. If you biked it, it's 2800 miles and apparently there's a thing called the Cowboy Trail."

"So you haven't thought about it at all," says your friend, dryly.

"Nope, not a bit." You both laugh. It's not very funny at all. "How come you're here?"

She jerks her thumb at the door. "The ex is packing. I'm avoiding break up sex that's supposed to make me feel better."

You smirk. Gail said firmly that you were not having 'break up' sex, but it was pretty damn good. "Make up sex is nice," you say wistfully.

"Not as nice as lives-with-you sex."

Fair enough. "Not to put an end to our stunning conversation, but I'm going home."

Your friend lifts her glass, refilled, and suggests, "You should figure out if you want to be here or there."

"Working on it," you confirm.

You pay your tab and call a Lyft, since the taxis here get lost more than you do, and the BART smells at 1AM. The BART smells all the time. And the city has no concept of public transportation. Gail learned not to get you started on the bus situation.

It's not till you're home that your phone rings, and yes, it's Gail. It's nearly five for her.

"Hey," you greet her, feeling really awkward. "You didn't have to call."

"I know," she replies. "But you never text me in the middle of the night. You okay?"

"It's only two here," you point out.

"Holly," she sighs at you.

"I miss you," you tell her. It's the same thing you said in that text. The same three words. They still feel painful and empty.

She's quiet for a moment and you hear the metal clang of what's probably her locker. "I miss you too." Her voice is soft. You like that voice. You could do without the loud chatter around her though.

You fall onto your couch. "Did I make a mistake? I miss you. All of you guys, but mostly you. I even miss Lisa." She snorts at you, but doesn't interrupt. "I miss snow. It's just wet and grimy here, all the damn time. They don't have summer at all, and just screw public transportation." You continue to vent about it until she asks how work is and you pause. "Work's good," you mutter. It's a lie. Work's awesome.

The silence drags and Gail clears her throat. "Oliver recommended me for T.O.," she tells you, offhandedly.

"Wow, that's good, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah it is. He's even letting me run a couple parades." Which means things are good for her too. "I finally found a good apartment, too. Kinda near Steve's, but he'll have to actually check if I'm home before showing up." And now Gail catches you up to the latest news, half happy, half awkward, until you ask about Sophie and now she pauses. "Yeah," she mutters.

That 'Yeah' says it all. "Honey, I'm sorry."

"I was a long shot anyway," she says, as if she doesn't care. "Oh, did I tell you Oliver's making me stay on the stupid softball team?"

You smile. "You did," you remind her.

You're both silent again until you groan. "Can you come visit?"

"Get on a plane and just zip over for Christmas?"

"I was thinking Thanksgiving."

She laughs. "Wish I could. I'm out of vacation days."

You already knew that. "But I'll see you in Feburary."

"In 75 days," confirms Gail. "Why are you so mopey?"

You exhale loudly. "I was at a bar." And you tell her about the whole 'girlfriend in Canada' trope, which she finds hilarious, and the stranger at the bar. "And then I came home because I really miss you a lot."

"That is weirdly romantic," she says without teasing you at all. Then she yawns. "I need to go sleep, Holly. You okay?"

Let's see. You're alone in a foreign country without the woman you're in love with, in a shitty apartment you hate, but your job rocks. "I'm fine," you lie.

Gail seems to sense that. "Listen, you know you're my girlfriend, right?" And the world stops for a moment. Apparently you're silent for a long moment, because suddenly Gail is hallooing in your ear. "Please confirm existence, Holly."

"Uh." You are so damn eloquent. "I'm your girlfriend?"

"Pretty sure that's what you call the woman you have sex with," Gail notes, dryly. Then she pauses. "Unless… I mean, I thought we were."

"We didn't call it anything," you point out, trying to figure out if she changed, you changed, or you just didn't notice.

"Yeah, I don't call my gun anything either, and it's still my gun," sasses Gail. "Look, this one's simple. I like you, a lot. I miss you. When I see you, I want to kiss you and be with you and I'm spending all my vacation days I can on flying to stupid America just to see you. If that isn't 'girlfriend' then I need to —"

"No!" You are a bit too loud and she laughs. "Yes, I mean. You. Girlfriend. You're mine."

"Suave," she laughs. "Okay. Good. And remember to show all those stupid lesbians my photo so they know you have a hottie girlfriend in Canada."

You smile so hard it hurts a little. "Okay." It's all you can say right now. "Is now a good time to drop ILUs?"

The noise Gail makes tells you she's screwing her face up into a 'what the hell?' expression. "ILUs?" Then someone on her side of the phone is loud. "Oh! Seriously? People still say that? You're so incredibly weird, Holly. I love you."

And there she went and said it first. "Who was that?"

"Chloe," dismisses Gail. "But I do."

"It's not fair you said it first," you whinge, but you're still smiling too much. "I love you too, Gail."

"Okay then. Go to sleep. I'll call you tomorrow. Today. Later today."

The goodbyes take too long. Both of you keep saying goodbye until Gail finally snaps in her funny, petty way and tells you to stop being so weird. And there's one last 'I love you' trade before she hangs up.

You stay on the couch, smiling, hugging your phone.

You still miss her. You miss her terribly. But now you feel like you have something a little more to hang on to. Something to make the next 75 days more bearable.

And a few weeks later, at a different bar, when you tell someone you're sorry but you have a girlfriend, you say it with lightness in your heart.

"I have a girlfriend, in Canada, and she's awesome."


End file.
